Thee, I compare to a literal witch,
In more modern terms I should call you a-
Person whom I love for your stinging wit.
Intolerable you are, they may say,
Insults with which you make my day, so quick;
As long as they’re not directed MY way.
Beauty, not face, but sarcasm thick,
Not liked, but easy it is that you lay,
Yourself, you are, lest you’re called a *****,
My outspoken love remember, I say
In twenty years you’ll be getting YOUR kicks,
Boys will be boys, and hell they may pay.
Idiots they are and so they shall stay,
Catch wind of your wrath, to god they should pray.

It's a straight and narrow path, well defined,
yours was content next to mine.
Hers to the right, his to the left, the intersections a veritable mess.
When you treat me, be kind, I know I've crossed over my lines and into yours, but southern hospitality is what you're known for.
Pour me a drink, kind stranger, this is stranger than anything I've known before.
And I'm a guest, I get it, but I doubt you can get me out of your head.
I'm enjoying the tour though, my friend.
I'm from the straight laced, early morning-late night, stick up your ***, uptight class of those with grand plans of Ivy leagues and shaking hands with presidents and world class scholars,
and you from a more relaxed, kicked back, slow motion, 2.0 kind of world, surprising we get on so well.
It's probably the wee bit of **** in between us, because normally, the way you speak would have gotten you knocked on your ***,
instead I laughed.
So when our paths cross again, both a little wider, more winding,
remind me of the time we had and please, do come again,
Priss and *****, Mench and shmuck, thanks for hosting such a cliche new friend.

Somewhere along the way, I've close to abandoned what of me that used to see a tree and climb it,
get hurt and survive it,
and so somewhere along the way I shrank.
Into myself I fold like paper, delicate like the fortune tellers made on the playground.
Smoke goes in my lungs, and dust comes out.
I used to spit flowers and now I spit fire.
Parts of me are vapor, run your hand through me to change my shape.
I sit, diminish, deflate, and deconstruct until I'm naught but nothing.
Air maybe? To fuel the fire?
Or water to put it out? Is it better to let the ash fly free, let that be my legacy?
Let me grow and let me be.
I'm withering, unfortunately, be back soon maybe?

It’s occured to me that under the fast food wrappers, my car smells like coconuts, it pulls to the right, and far more people have been inside than I have friends.
The first of my class to turn 16, I made them quickly.
Under the sweatshirts from days not well planned weather-wise and stray socks, my car smells like driving 80 in a 40, a boy band on the radio, and looks like all 100, 000 of the miles on it.
Under the sticky notes and cheap sunglasses from summers I spent somewhere my mother didn’t know I was, my car smells like *****, a bottle under the seat, leaking slightly, my headache the next day was more a give away regardless.
Under the mess of a hunk of metal I babied until the AC roared and the key had to be wiggled and the heat only worked on one side, my carb smells like 16 and 17 and 18 and 19; its a forever sort of smell you can’t describe but immediately place.
A cacophony of the places I’ve been.

Demonize me, idolize and memorialize me.
Act like you’ve memorized me.
Cross your heart and hope to die.
Romanticize me, analyze and angelizise me.
Do anything but rationalize that I’m nothing but human, no better or worse.
Demean me, curse me out, be mean to me.
The same goes for you, I’m not pure saint or pure sin, you cared where I’d been and who’d I’d touched,
Nosy much?
I used to idolize, memorialize and romanticize your every move,
But then something moved,
Unblocked the sun and moon,
And soon I saw less and less of you.

You aren’t afriad of the dark.
You’re afraid of what you can’t see
Can’t hear
Can’t know.
You shine a light into the darkness and see only shawdows,
It casts claws
Casts fangs,
Casts horror onto what we can’t see.
Because there are no monsters in the dark,
Just the absence of light,
And light is where the true monsters reside.
You can’t see blood behind the Bible,
The labels,
The money, just like skin over vein
Monsters rely on us squinting against the sun,  
Against their insults, and always their restrictions
Those that make us sing requiem for life and for living
#new
So don’t shed light, and let compassion light the way.
Don’t blind figures in the dark and don’t be blinded by the sun.
After all, the boy who cried wolf whispered
“I am”

Most People are made in prose.
A character develops over time Personality, passion, between the lines Flesh paper thin, with inked in eyes.
A person is like a journal.
Pages fill through out their lives, Towards the end, with weakened spines The story unfolds, by and by.
Mainly unremarkable, weary, tired.
The language flows and blows Right beyond every
Thought ever thunk
Or fact ever known
And I think I've thunk a few million times I want to run my hand down your spine... The book of course
I want to read until my voice is hoarse
I want to fill in the missing lines
Stare somewhere onto your inked in smile
Because I believe the author filling you up sees you like I do Like I want you to.
They see your messy hair
Messy room
Messy heart
If I were to pick the words apart
Your prose would be words of creators pride They wrote you somewhere deep and divine
Maybe you were made of poetry
That's how you float so far above me
You were depicted, descripted
From words far better than I or average
Words that leave a taste in your mouth
That you never want to wash out
I think you'd taste like cherries and-
The words I mean
They make you out to be something worth being
I know I like what I'm seeing-
I mean reading!
Even the writing is oh so tantalizing.
The way you dot your I's
I mean come on, no fair
Structurally no one can compare...
To the way youre written I mean!
This is all nothing but a metaphor, of course.
If you looked beyond my inked in eyes
You'd see just why i choose trying to hide behind it I'm cherry pits and uncrossed T's
Someone like you just can't see me
I'm prose, plainly spoken, spine humbly broken. Well worn, no classic, nothing fantastic.
.

But you, you make me speak
In words smooth and sleek
Like singing they slip, drip, sneak Across my lips
Pure bliss
Because you're letting me write you
I think that's what I'm meant to do. You're the one and only made of poetry.